


"What If for Lioness" (MAJOR SPOILERS) (INSPIRATION OF FIC)

by Omnibard



Series: We've Not Yet Lost All Our Graces [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Lucis-Accordo Alliance, Old Retinue, Political Alliances, Princes & Princesses, Princess AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-10-22 08:06:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17659115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnibard/pseuds/Omnibard
Summary: "This is a 'what-if' for'Lioness', Chapter 1{{SO SPOILERS FOLLOW}} where I ask "What if Cor and Ariel had been caught that night in Altissia by Regis and Clarus?"What happens is that Regis, more than half-convinced Ariel was an Imperial sympathizer, if not completely Imperialist, blackmails her into reconsidering his offer of marriage and forces her to help him forge an alliance with Accordo.  He's pissed off about the political ramifications going on around them, but also he's PERSONALLY angry at her for messing with his 'little bro'.  Ariel becomes Queen of Lucis and the Lucis-Accordo Alliance is made once more.  Regis has no love for his bride, and indeed kind of hates her.  He decrees that she and Cor are definitely never allowed in the same room together, alone. (So she can't try and seduce him again.)  Then Aulea is brought into the picture, as Regis's mistress.  It all gets very political and angsty..."UPDATE:  I moved this out of "The Cutting Room Floor" and put it with the series.  THIS IS SUPER SPOILERY if you are reading "We've Not Yet Lost All Our Graces" but this WAS the inspiration for that series...





	"What If for Lioness" (MAJOR SPOILERS) (INSPIRATION OF FIC)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Lioness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13995162) by [Omnibard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omnibard/pseuds/Omnibard). 



Leaving the presence of his King, Cor was resolved in his mind that he would return to his office and his work there.  Therefore, it was with no small amount of surprise and a fair amount of irritation that he found himself at the door to the Queen’s apartments.

_“I just want you to be happy, Cor… You understand, don’t you?”_

He didn’t really.  He did, of course, understand that Regis wanted him to be happy, because Regis was his friend, his brother, and was very kind.  Regis was kind.  What Cor didn’t understand was how Regis could justify why he _deserved_ to be happy.  He’d stood by, silent, all these years, watching them all drive her deeper and deeper into a corner with their suspicions and accusations.  He’d listened while they whispered their darkest fears and painted them on her, forced her to wear them, and spoke with ice-cold malice as if she’d been the one to bring them into the Citadel.  They’d isolated and hated her, and then huddled together and worried over _when_ she’d strike back, and how.  And Cor had sat with them, watching with dread for the same moment.

Cor did not deserve to be happy, not after the way he’d turned his face away from what was happening to the Queen of Lucis.  He’d _done_ this to her.  She’d made her decision, years ago, in hot-blooded recklessness, but then so had _he_ , and she had borne the full brunt of the penalty, all these years.  He hadn’t.  Regis was his friend, his brother, and had extended his hand to _protect him_ while using the other to bring all the wrath he could reasonably summon down upon her, convinced there’d been something more _nefarious_ to her intentions.

Staring at the elegantly paneled door, the Marshal did not know why he’d come.  He did not deserve to be happy, and was fairly certain he did not even _seek_ happiness.  There was no more time to consider the reasons, however, because one of the servants was inquiring down the hall after him, surely confused why the Marshal of the Crownsguard was loitering at the door to the Queen’s apartments.

He entered without knocking.

The apartments were expansive and open, designed specifically for entertaining.  The windows stood large, and the Queen kept many of them open, so the air in the rooms was fresh and only faintly scented with incense and perfume.  The open windows were a security nightmare, but everyone had long since given up the protest after she remarked that the glass wasn’t reinforced at all _anyway_.  The furnishings were neat and luxurious without too much opulence—somehow she’d married Altissian and Lucian styles into something harmonious, and it successfully masked the discord in her marriage.  The colors glowed pale and easy on the eyes, in the sunlight—warm peach and cream, touches of seafoam.

In his black fatigues he stood out like a housefly on a wedding cake.

She sat on the couch facing the door, her posture betraying that she’d only just arranged herself there upon hearing someone enter the room—just a bit too prim and poised—and as usual she was dressed for company that hardly ever arrived but must always be anticipated.  The pencil dress was elegant against her figure, the skirt a conservative-just-at-the-knee length with lace sleeves past her elbows.  A sweetheart neckline offered perhaps a touch more _décolletage_ than some elder members of the court would find altogether appropriate, but it was not _lurid_.  She’s _beautiful_ , still so _beautiful_ despite everything they’ve put her through, and she smiled like sunshine bursting through the parting clouds, like she was _so happy_ to see him.

Like she _didn’t_ despise him.

But she was kind, too, and she smiled through her torment because her pride would not suffer them to see her otherwise.  She was kind, even though they wait with baited breath for her cruelty to show at last, for her to lunge for their throats like a cornered sabertusk, snarling and vicious.  She wass kind, kind enough to break her back bending backwards for Regis, to allow him everything he wanted.  She accepted his mistress, Aulea, and treated her generously, like an equal, threatening her own social disgrace.  She’d accepted their son, Noctis, and claimed him as her own—even placing herself under seclusion for the remaining seven months of Aulea’s pregnancy so as to validate the lie that he was born from her body--and the legitimate heir, despite Regis never touching her.  Never once.  She was kind.

It’s killing her.  He can see it, in the growing translucence of her skin, in the faint hollowing of her face, expertly masked by her makeup, but he remembered what she looked like without the makeup and the burden.  The burden of their suspicion and mistrust.  The burden of the Wall.  She had a power, it seemed, mysterious and foreign, and with it she could share Regis’s burden—make him strong, sustain _him_ while he sustained the Wall.  She offered herself this way, to re-expand the Wall over all of Lucis again, but in exchange they would also protect her homeland of Accordo.  The King’s health improved, even as his power expanded, and the war was turning, slowly.  But the Queen suffered.

With a smile.

“Marshal…” She said it warm and familiar even though they both knew he’d only ever stepped foot in here a handful of times, and never alone, “To what do I owe the pleasure?  Ah, let me call someone…”

Until very, _very_ recently they were not permitted in the same room alone together, by decree of the King.  For Cor’s protection.  They’d never broken this decree, or any other he’d given after.  The realization crashed into his chest, heavy and sharp, like an axe-blow.  She didn’t know.  She didn’t know what Regis and he had just talked about.  Somehow he’d thought she’d already know, inherently, even though he’d just come directly from his King…

Crossing the room, he sinks to a knee on the plush rug at her feet, lowering his gaze, but in his peripheral he saw additional tension enter her slender frame, “Your Majesty…”

His voice broke, his mouth suddenly dry, and his mind empty.  He knew now, why he’d come, but what does he say?  How does he phrase it?  Which words to use without presuming one way or another?  For a moment, he thinks himself unequal to this task; he should have gone back to his office.  His throat worked uselessly, trying to swallow, and he knows she can see.

“Astrals,” Voice soft, she reached down and cupped his face in a hand, “what in the world could be the matter, Marshal?”

So _kind_.  His hand shook when he reached up for hers, covering it with every intention of pulling it away—it’s _wrong_ for her to bleed kindness for him—but he can’t, and he found his voice instead, broken in rough pieces, tattered in his throat, “I’ve been in conference with the king, your Majesty.”

His hand pressed hers into his face, still trembling, and his eyes found her face and he saw something cool and distant settled there, uncertainty in her warm, dark eyes.  All of this was so strange to her, of course—he’d come alone, and knelt at her feet like he’d never done before—and she didn’t know and he was compelled to tell her.  It had to be _him_ , and he couldn’t be sure _why_ … “Pray tell, what news from my husband, our King?”

Swallowing hard, the Marshal’s eyes slipped closed and he turned his face into her hand, murmuring against her palm, “You don’t have to call anyone.  If you don’t want to.”

He couldn’t see her, with his eyes closed, but she did not move her hand, not the barest flinch, and he pressed his lips against her palm and prayed for her fingers to hook and her manicured nails to tear through the flesh of his face.

He wanted her punishment.  The King had spared and protected him.  He needed the Queen’s wrath—it was what he’d _earned_ all these years.

Her breath caught, a small sound that drove through his spine from the top of his skull and ended up somewhere low in his belly, hot and molten.  He kissed her palm again, and then slid his lips lightly to the heel of her hand, the delicate skin of the underside of her wrist against the throb of her quickening pulse, pressing kisses.  Her other had was still free, and she could not be so kind as to not push him away or slap him.  She could not be so kind as to not draw away in revulsion.

She doesn’t.  She was, or it was something _else_ , because she shivered, breath chasing from between her lips in a shudder and his eyes opened, seeking her expression.  There was color there, something warm and vibrant beneath her skin.  Her dark eyes locked on his face, drinking in his reverence, her lips parted gently, unsmiling and earnest, trembling.

Cor steadied as a more powerful need overtook his desperation for her punishment: he could _please her_.  She didn’t reject him, and the King’s years long censure was lifted.  Some small voice in the back of his mind protested—he should not be touching his Queen this way—but her eyes met his and her breath catches again, driving more liquid metal into his guts, sliding down from his spine.  His lips trailed lightly up the inside of her forearm.

“Marshal.” She whispered, swallowing as he reached the inside of her elbow and the lace of her sleeve.

His voice was soft and thick, little more than a quiet growl, “Your Majesty?”

“That’s enough,” Her hand tugged at his collar, “Kiss me sweet.”

Straightening his spine, he leaned up, releasing her hand, and pressed his lips to hers, trying hard for sweetness despite the dark tangled things clambering through him.  He did not hesitate, obedience coming natural and easy, as if it were any command given by Regis.  He did not hesitate, he tried for sweetness, but he imagined it was awkward, and forced, and only just _barely_ avoiding being _perfunctory_.  But she shivered under it, against his touch, against _any_ touch, because the Lucian Queen was beautiful but also deeply _mistrusted._ To consort too closely with her was to tempt incisive inquiries from the Crownsguard and political ruin.  So she remained _untouched_ for fear of facing the wrath of Regis or his inner circle.

“Now,” She whispered, eyes half-lidded, mouth sliding into something smug, and perhaps even a little _pleased_ , and it’s been a _lifetime_ since he’d seen either on her face, “kiss me _hungry_ , Cor.”

He balked, “… Your Majesty…”  She was his Queen, and he wanted to please her, and he _had_ lusted after her for fifteen years, lusted and _more_ , and he was very, _very hungry_ …  But she was his _Queen_ , and until just a few minutes ago, he hadn’t been permitted to touch her _at all,_ much less without due regard for her station.

She said nothing, only looked at him.  Her eyes did not invite him to drown in them—they hadn’t in fifteen years.  He remembered when they used to—what that’d _felt like_.  The last time she’d told him to do something for her had been when she’d told him to take her virginity as the Princess of Accordo.  Since then, as his _Queen_ , she’d never asked or commanded anything of him for her own sake or happiness.  She’d commanded him, on occasion, to extend the Crownsguard to keep the snooping media at bay while Aulea disguised herself as the Queen so she could have a holiday in the sun on the King’s arm, and he’d done it.  It’d made Regis and his mistress very happy.  Otherwise, she’d wanted nothing from him.

The last time he’d done as she’d commanded for her own happiness, and against his own misgivings, it had landed them in this pit of glittering, personal misery, with her bleeding kindness to people who hated her while nursing her vengeance in silent isolation.  With him watching her do it, staring across throne rooms and dining rooms and ballrooms and courtyards, wanting and hating himself for wanting, day after day.

Would it have been better if he _hadn’t_?  If he _hadn’t_ gone with her to the bedroom to eventually be caught by Regis and Clarus?  Would it have turned out _better_?

Probably not.  She’d be dead—Caligo Uldor’s sixth ‘mysteriously dead’ wife—most likely.  Dead, or using her strange power to bolster _Niflheim_.  There’d be no Lucis-Accordo Alliance.  The Wall would be small and concentrated around the Crown City.  Lucis would still be losing the war.  Regis would still be aging and dying far faster than nature intended, bleeding his life for the Wall and his magic and those who relied on it.

She’d be beyond him.  Far beyond him.  Not that she _hadn’t_ been— _wasn’t_.  She was his Queen.  His friend and King’s bride.  He remembered that had been _his idea_ in the first place, before Regis had forced it on her.  To keep her out of Uldor’s hand, Cor had asked Regis to marry her.

And Regis had, in his kindness and wrath.

“… Do you refuse?” She asked softly, voice and expression cool, not yet retreating, but it was the next step to preserve whatever was left of her dignity, “I must have been mistaken…”

She was kindly giving him the _out_ …

He moved, capturing her mouth with his, abrupt; graceless.  She responded, softening, yielding, and _yearning_.  She wanted his hunger, so he gave her his teeth and his tongue, and he was _hungry_ \--fifteen years of bitter, _bitter_ gnawing hunger.  His hand slid into her dark hair, fingers tangling in the neat bindings of her chignon, pulling her into him.  She was eager, _ardent_ , and his heart trampled through his rib cage and thundered in his ears while the boiling metal in his guts sank and pooled, heavy, throbbing between his legs, straining against the crotch of his pants.

Suddenly there was a change.  Her hand found his in her hair, manicured nails digging mercilessly in the meat of his thumb while twisting his wrist, forcing him to let go while her teeth sank into his lower lip—scraping his tongue in her hurry—and she bit him, hard.  He surrendered, unresistant.  The discomfort slowly and steadily built into sharp pain, lancing straight through his brain, and something inside _thrilled_ at it.

 _Punishment_.

She bit, digging teeth steadily deeper through his flesh, and his erection throbbed all the more insistently, almost in time with his racing pulse.

_Yes… yes, yes, yes…_

No.  Almost against his volition, he made a quiet, protesting sound in his throat.  King Regis had told him to be _discrete_ , and so he could not walk out of the Queen’s apartments with his lip bitten through and bloody.

She released him, delicately tidying her lips with her fingers before raising her chin and looking down her nose at him with narrowed, hooded eyes, “… I did not permit you to put your _hands_ on me.”

 _Punishment_.  His blood sang with it.

“My apologies, your Majesty.”

With a scoff, she said, “My forgiveness is not purchased with _words_.”

Throbbing, achingly hard, Cor swallowed.  Then his phone rang.  It was King Regis’s ringtone.

The Queen knew it as well, and her face iced over, falling into that kindly smiling, infinitely distant expression, and she turned her face away to look out the window.

“Go on, then.  Answer the call of your master.”

She was gone.  It was done.  Whatever had happened here, it was over now, and the rest of the world pressed back in.  It was a struggle to regain his feet with any semblance of grace, but he did it.  Then he turned and walked out, bringing the phone to his ear as he went.

“Yes, your Majesty?”  He heard the difference in his voice, the difference in _weight_ , and grimaced at what it might mean.

 

 


End file.
